


lover's spit (drown in it)

by Waypaststrange (moonbeatblues)



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: 3 am, Canon Compliant, F/F, a little angsty, and it's uh, i'm oh so late to this fandom, metaphors coming out my ears, my apologies, so I'm going to sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 18:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11537694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbeatblues/pseuds/Waypaststrange
Summary: cosima listening to teeth a little to late to quit





	lover's spit (drown in it)

**Author's Note:**

> a somewhat accompanying, quick and dirty cophine playlist:  
> la fille aux cheveux de lin (Heifetz)- Debussy  
> dog years- Maggie Rogers  
> half acre- Hem  
> scheherezade (3rd movement)- Rimsky-Korsakov  
> stockholm syndrome- HOW SAD  
> nimble girl- Hotel Eden  
> saltwater- Beach House  
> myth- Beach House

Delphine slid sweet up against you at first, naïveté seemingly thick on her tongue, too easy a comparison to Debussy to make. Fragile and frazzled she seemed to you, like a fawn recently-made-doe, peering from the brush.  
Fresh across the pond, twisting to free herself of cobwebs; you fancied yourself something new for her to fall into. You fancied yourself someone who knew anything at all.

Wavering, like that old Heifetz recording. Unsure, and choosing to latch onto you. It made you feel dangerously nice, dangerously _important_.

God, you'd been pretty stupid about it, too.  
You were supposed to be the skeptic, the fucking _scientist_ , for gods' sake. If any of the group of you who managed to find one another could keep on their toes, it should've been you.  
(Or Beth, but that ship sailed just before your convictions.)

You knew it was her from day fucking zero, when she watched you a little too carefully in the hall. Like she was rapid-fire filing away everything you let slip about yourself behind crocodile tears to dredge up later. When she wasn't selling the ditz, she regarded you like she had to make a conscious decision to use your name instead of a number she'd been given (or, rather, a sequence of numbers and letters, as you'd come to know). It should have frightened you so much more.  
God, it should've sent you running.

But sometimes her eyes were dark and heavy enough to hide it, to confuse you, and you wanted so badly to be led astray. She smiled at you and secrets spilled like honey from your traitorous mouth. She pressed kisses to your cheeks and you crumbled underneath your coat.

It was the kiss that did you in, too. Funny, how Delphine could only truly play skittish when she was actually afraid of you.  
Her eyes were wide at your tone when yours were lidded, laid bare when you alluded to holding pretenses, and you let yourself think she wasn't afraid of being caught out, that what sent her running was your proximity alone. If she'd pushed back, held your face and not hovered, breathed you in and not (literally) held her breath, then you'd have been suspicious, and that was the worst of it. If she'd let you give in to her, you'd have known.

But she pulled back, stammered and fled and made a sheep of you.  
So that when she returned, fresh off the fear of being told you were in danger, stowing panic well enough that you couldn't taste it, she had you like a fisher lays claim to its prey, few and far between but forever; hook, line, and fucking _sinker_.

You treasured the sight of her, giddy on her like she was a stripe of gold on a canyon wall. She talked about Leekie again, subtle as seawater (Pacific), and you didn't _care_. She was in your apartment, taking up your space like she wasn't afraid to, and you felt like you were inhaling the aurora borealis.  
She made your space her own, reached for you, and the solar flare seared you from the inside out.

And thoroughly scorched Cosima was not the version of yourself that could have noticed when her spine straightened out, when she pulled you in rather than vice versa. She shed her scared skin with your clothes and you should've seen it.

Delphine is not demure: _was_ not demure, _ceased_ to be demure for you in your bed.  
A pillow princess still- pretending to never have been with a woman wasn't exactly in her job description- but one who unflinchingly dragged red patterns up and down your back with her nails, dug faint bruises into your shoulder blades with her heels, made the best breathy noises into your collarbone and the open air alike. One who seemed consciously and subconsciously unafraid to leave her mark.

She slid freshly-shaky fingers over you, pressed you, panting, into your mattress, let you guide her, tangled up into you and tangled up _you_ like she was unsure of how to make you feel like you'd made her feel but not afraid of breaking you. Not yet.  
Clearer editions of your own head would have puzzled over what to make of the shift, but as it was, you couldn't make much of anything beyond the stars behind your screwed-shut eyes, screwed-up cautions, inexpertly screwed self.

And thus she made you only too happy to give her free reign of your place while you went in search of eskimo pies, hazily happy to let her back you up in the lab and kiss you in front of fuckin' _Scott_ , naïvely, stupidly happy to let her prod and poke at where your shell had covered.

And when you were all but forced to rip that flimsy veil from off your stupid, stupid eyes, the tears burned you and your honey-thick throat like pure chlorine, and she watched.

Desperate to make you see, to stay a shadow across your back, but you were- you _are_ 324B21, and she is no doe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this might end up as a collection of cophine things as i sink further into the depths  
> 'm over at @seafleece on tumblr, come say hello


End file.
